Valentine's Day
by suiei
Summary: Arson leads to an investigation, which leads to a disturbing foray into the world of the Syndicates. I swear it's not as bad as the summary, please R&R! V:OC
1. Chapter 1

He was not the typical definition of handsome, with his tall, overtly lithe frame, more intimidating than inviting, and an angular, sharp face shadowed by a thick flurry of silvery white hair. His skin was very pale, like he avoided sunlight as completely as possible, and it sharply contrasted with his dark clothing. I felt myself shuddering under the weight of his pale blue eyes, as they bore down at me from their impassive station.

Realizing that I was staring, I jerked my eyes from his face and down to the cash register.

"What can I get for you, sir?" I asked mechanically, and glanced out over the floor, at the couples chattering and thinking no one was watching when they dove in for a little private action.

_Am I the only one who hates this season?_

I managed to mostly smother a grimace of disgust as I watched two people lean at each other from opposite sides of the table and kiss—not just a nice kiss, but the kind you generally saw in contraband porn tapes slipped between backpacks in boy's high school locker rooms.

_This is a coffee shop, not a pay-by-the-hour hotel!_

"I'm sorry, sir—I didn't catch that?" I said, quickly recouping myself and trying hard to ignore the couple, who, put together, weighed as much as an economy sized car.

"Regular coffee," he said rather flatly, and for a moment my mind ceased to function. He was like someone you read about in books, saw in movies, maybe even watched on some history program about people who could shock with their eyes and render speechless with their voices.

"I—I...of course! I'm so sorry," I chattered quickly, and my fingers danced on the cashier pad. "That's two wulongs, even. Charlotte, can I have a—what size did you say?"

"Medium," the man said, and his eyes, icy and pinning, didn't blink as he regarded me with a disaffected expression.

"Of course—_Charlotte_! Medium regular coffee!" I waved in my friends' direction, feeling myself start to panic.

_Who is this guy? Why in the world am I freaking out like this?_

"Alright, alright...you don't have to yell," Charlotte said, immediately going to the coffee machine, after throwing a cautious look in the direction of the ghost-like man. A braver girl than I, Charlotte walked right up to the counter and set the coffee before him. She smiled sweetly. "Here you go, sir."

She continued to smile as he gave a short, frosty nod and walked to the back of the coffee shop, and sat down at a table around the corner, out of our sight.

"You're too easily spooked," Charlotte said quietly, rolling her eyes at me.

I bristled in offense. "He was _creepy_! Did you look into his eyes?" I hissed back pleadingly, in a voice that wasn't quite loud enough for the customers to hear it.

Charlotte's green eyes narrowed. "Watch yourself! The district people are supposed to be in here today, and they haven't been in yet."

A surge of fear ran through me as I realized what she meant. Every now and then, people from the district office of Chatsky's, the chain coffee shop at which I worked, would come disguised as regular customers, and see how they were treated, what kind of service they got, the atmosphere, the cleanliness, etc.

You never could guess when they'd come, sometimes there had been months or weeks in between, sometimes a day. But, sometimes, as apparently now, you'd get a little tip off.

Sometimes, according to Charlotte who had been an employee there for a good year or year and a half, they would intentionally try to cause trouble to see how the employees handled it. It was a cruel practice and not wholly good for business, but it _was_ effective at keeping us on our toes, and that was their design.

"Maybe _you_ should take the register?" I said, staring beseechingly at my friend. "_Please_?"

Charlotte, who glanced at the front doors, nodded. "Sure, you can go clean the espresso machine."

"You want something to drink?" I asked, our voices back at a regular volume, now, as I was pushing the thought of the white-haired man out of my head and quickly returning to my job.

"Sure. Make me something without coffee in it."

I nodded wordlessly, and set about pouring a shot of espresso for myself before cleaning it and making my friend a caramel hot chocolate.

A few hours later—and after a problem customer to boot, who we were convinced was the spy—we started to clean up.

I'd all but forgotten about the disturbing white-haired man, and had taken the task of putting new water in the miniature vases on all the tables, where each held a little sprig of flowers.

Since it was five until nine o'clock, I had not been expecting anyone to still be in the seating area, especially since it was otherwise deserted.

"Marie! Are you done yet?" Amanda shouted from the back room. Marie was my name and I shared it with no other current employee, so she was talking to me.

"No, not yet!"

Without thinking, and with some random tune that was stuck in my head manifesting into an off-key mutterings reminiscent of the lyrics, I walked over towards the small cluster of high tables, and rearranged the chairs; which were supposed to be four to a table, but were always displaced by the end of the day.

Something caught my eye, and I turned to it. A sudden chill came over me, and it took me a few seconds to shake the sensation.

_What's he still doing here!_

I'm sure my face registered utter shock; it always did tend to betray me most when I needed to watch myself.

"Uh...excuse me, sir?" I said rather weakly, pacing towards him deferentially, but still keeping my distance. "We're going to be closing in five minutes."

He lifted his head and stared at me with unblinking blue eyes.

"Are you done with your coffee? I can take that for you."

His motion afterwards indicated that I should, and so I did.

I went back to behind the counter and grabbed Amanda, our shift manager. I said quietly: "That white haired guy is still here."

"_What_ white-haired guy?" Amanda asked, fixing me with a strange look. "Some old guy? What, are we going to need to call a taxi 'cause he can't drive?"

"I don't think he's old," I said, and then turned at the tinkling sounds of the bells attached to the front door. I watched a head of white hair, and a body cloaked in a midnight suit, as it faded quickly into the night. "Well...I guess, never mind then. That was him." I stared at the retreating back, inexplicably troubled.

Amanda shrugged. "Are you done yet?"

"I'm getting there," I muttered, and went back to changing out the water.

* * *

The following day was Valentine's Day, and as luck would have it, it was my day off from both classes and work.

I had no grand plans, I had no one to bring me chocolates—except of course the package from my father who gave me chocolates and candy every year, which had arrived two days earlier. It sat on my counter, waiting to be opened, like an edible, taunting Christmas present.

The clock already read noon, and I had no intentions of getting dressed. I still wore exactly what I'd slept in last night—a pair of over sized, pink flannel pants, and a black tank top which had the worn image of a coat of arms printed on the front in white. The socks on my feet were fuzzy and purple. Since I was in exactly the same state as I'd woken up in, my hair was naturally tangled and wild.

I sat on my couch, watching old war movies, sulking about my pathetic lack of a love life. Maybe that evening I'd order out for pizza and complain about all the Valentine's movies on prime time, which all seemed contrived to make me all the more moody and irritable.

It wasn't so much resentment against happy couples, so much as the fact I had to hear about it, and for a week afterwards I'd be regaled with story after story of any given friend of mine's recollection of what they and their "significant other" did. And now that most of us were old enough to get drunk over it, this also tended to include the lurid details.

My apartment was small but well appointed, if quite dirty. I wasn't the model for cleanliness, and I had dirty dishes piled high in my sink.

"What the hell is this movie again?" I muttered, and reached for the TV guide. _The Guns of Navarone_. I squinted at the actors, trying to 'read' the uniforms of the 'Nazi soldiers' running around. I gave that up when the phone rang, and I, with a rather put-out flourish, put the movie on mute, and went to the ugly tan thing stuck on my wall. The name on the caller ID wasn't one I recognized.

"Hello? Who is this?" I said, and glanced back at the screen. There was a lot of shooting going on. More Nazis. The image looked somewhat faded from this distance. I smiled slightly, remembering that my grandmother had always thought Gregory Peck was good looking, and I found I agreed with her.

_How old _is_ this movie, anyway?_

"Hello? Marie Hammel? This is detective Norman Daniels, I'm with the Patmos City Police Department."

I blinked in surprise; whatever I'd been expecting, it hadn't been that.

"Oh, uh...okay," I said awkwardly, with no idea as to why anyone from the ISSP would be calling me. "What can I do for you, officer?"

"_Detective_," corrected Mr. Daniels, rather sharply, and continued before I had time to apologize for my mistake. "There's been an accident and we'd like you to come in for some questions."

A plethora of thoughts darted through my head, as I tried to figure out what in the world this might be about. "I...of course...what kind of accident? What's happened?"

"Chatsky's coffee shop burned to the ground early this morning," said Mr. Daniels, rather bluntly, "Now, I'd like to assure you that you're not held as suspect, but we'd just like to get some basic information, about what you were doing that night, what time you left, etc."

"Of course," I said, and glanced at the television. Something had blown up and the screen was filled with an orange plume. "I'd be happy to answer anything you like.

"Wonderful," said Mr. Daniels, briskly. "I would like to schedule an interview. What time would be good for you?"

I told him that, if he wanted, I was available all today (as it was my day off, and a Saturday), and then listed the times of my college classes, and almost began to tell him my work schedule—then realized that such a thing was pointless.

It settled on me that I no longer had a place to work, and I had bills to pay. I managed to suppress the panic and fear I suddenly felt, and continued.

"No, that's important as well," said Mr. Daniels. "But we can talk about things like that at the interview. If you're not busy—I'm sure you have someone to get back to—"

I was sharp in correcting him— "No, actually, that's _why_ I said I was free all today." It was not without a touch of resentment that I said this—singles always tended to get the raw end of the deal on Valentine's—and it caught Mr. Daniels off guard.

"Oh...well then. I would like to ask you a few small questions, just to confirm them. Your name is Marie Jane Hammel? You're 23? A graduate student? Studying History and German?"

I confirmed what questions he had and corrected some of the minor details that he had wrong, and scheduled an interview tomorrow at 2pm—I was totally free, then, too, since Chatsky's was now gone.

As I put the phone back on the hook, I turned back to my television. The credits were rolling on the screen, as I walked back to my sofa and stood in front of it, markedly more sober as the names scrolled past.

"I want a beer," I muttered suddenly, and whipped around, heading towards my small refrigerator.

My apartment, a decent sized place considering the rent, had five rooms; though technically the kitchen and the living room were the same space. This division was demarcated by a kitchen counter, which, on the living room side, had three bar stools lined up against it, and it functioned as my table. On the kitchen side were cabinets and my toaster. I had very little food. In the living room was a small entertainment center, with my television on top of it. On the opposite side of the room was my sofa.

There was also a bedroom, a bathroom, and a little laundry room.

I took a beer out of the fridge and popped it open, and only barely relished the taste. Too many other things clouded my thoughts.

_What am I going to do for money? I can't borrow from my parents. I'll have to get another job. Where's the newspaper?_

Newspapers, according to my late grandmother, had changed. While even in her youth they had greatly lost significance as a source of primary news, the newspapers on Mars in 2073 served little else than to supplement and entertain. Still, one element the newspaper had retained: The classifieds.

I received one as a given part of my rent, and each day I picked it up from my doorstep and chunked it into the trash.

"Where are you," I muttered irritably, with one hand (beer in the other), as I sifted through the bin. "_There_!"

As I was straightening up there was a knock at my door, and so I tossed the paper onto the kitchen counter and went to open it.

It was my neighbor—my psychotic Christian neighbor. I groaned inwardly, though I plastered a smile on my face.

_Don't preach at me this morning, don't preach at me this morning, don't preach at me—_

"Omigosh! Have you seen? On the news? Don't you work at that little coffee shop?"

"I used to," I said, inwardly quite relieved. She tended to visit for two reasons: One; to relate the message of her pastor's sermon (This type of visit tended to be on a Sunday, of course), and Two; to complain that I watched movies too loudly. It wasn't _my_ fault that the walls were like paper and wars tended to include explosions.

_This really would have freaked me out if that detective hadn't already called me._

"I just got a call from the police about it. But I didn't know about it until they did call me. How do you know?"

_Oh, wait. She said it was on the news._

"It was on the morning report!" she said gleefully. "It was arson."

"_Arson_?" I repeated, now quite thunderstruck.

_Didn't Mr. Daniels say it was an accident?_

I shook my head and stared at the woman—her name was Angie Marsh—who had begun to stare at me with keen curiosity.

"Mr. Daniels told me it was an accident, and the news said it was arson?"

"An accident? Oh, no! Couldn't've been—they already know how it was started and everything."

_Either Daniels doesn't know the difference between accident and arson, or he was lying about me not being a suspect._

"...Oh," I said, quite duly shocked. "That's pretty quick to confirm something like that, don't you think? Is it on still?"

"Well, they never came out and _said_ it was arson, they just hinted a lot at it. They explained how they thought it started and everything."

I stared at her, and sighed. Stupid woman. I wasn't ever sure how to end conversations with curious neighbors, and Angie probably wouldn't leave too easily without a complete recap of my activities.

"The detective said...I shouldn't talk to anyone about it until I talk to him," I lied, privately congratulating myself, "To keep things from getting muddled up in my head. They say the more a story is told the more things get mixed up."

Angie's face was completely crestfallen, and I smiled at her—a genuine one enough, though not for the reasons she must have suspected—and shrugged. "I'm sorry. Is there anything else I can help you with?"

As usual, once the tidbit of gossip—and there would be gossip, people liked to talk too much at this apartment—got around, I wouldn't be able to go outside without having three people harass me.

It occurred to me that Angie would be the first to sulk about not being told, and that my lie was probably going to come around and bite me on the ass at some point. It might even cast suspicion where there was no guilt. My satisfied mood dropped away, leaving me rather irritated at my inadvertent stupidity.

"No...that's all," Angie said, and walked off, looking sad.

I shut the door quietly and locked it, and put the chain on.

Suddenly tired, I flopped down on my couch, my face buried in the dirty fabric, muffling my voice.

"_Shit_! I _hate_ Valentine's Day!"

* * *

So, what do you think...?

I don't own Cowboy Bebop.


	2. Chapter 2

The picture was only a few months old, but even then, detective Norman Daniels was having a hard time accepting the fact that it was a picture of a 23 year old girl—Marie Hammel, one of the employees who had worked at Chatsky's.

There were more lines on the round, plain face than should be there for her age, though he wondered in the back of his mind whether it was just harsh lighting that made what lines were there more marked. Hammel's expression was one of apprehension, and her mouth was twisted into an uncomfortable smile—the reluctant picture-smile one gave when they hated having photographs taken of themselves.

_She's certainly not going to be a trophy wife_, Daniels thought, staring at the image. Wispy, shoulder-length brown hair fell in bone-straight sheafs, ending in a very blunt cut. Her hair was economical but not very flattening. The type of haircut one has when they want the look of long hair, but don't want to deal with the troubles of having to do much with it.

Her hazel eyes sent a clear message: _Get me away from this camera, I don't want to be here_.

Like many college graduate students, her eyes had gone bad; in her case, midway through Junior year of her undergraduate studies. According to her file, she had been on Ganymede at the time studying ancient architecture (Ganymede housed many of Earth's salvaged relics), and cultural history. She wore contacts instead of glasses.

Daniels himself was convinced she had nothing to do with Chatsky's burning, nor did he think any of her fellow employees were at fault; but he would wait until all the cards were laid on the table before passing a final judgment.

"Probably some stupid kids out on a joyride," he muttered. "Maybe small-time yakuza out for some fun."

There had been eight total employees at the little shop, with a man named Jose Garcia as the head manager, and Amanda Doyle and Bernard—"Bernie"—Alford as the two shift managers, of whom one was always on the job. There were five more employees.

He had not heard anything from any employee that he had talked to—he hadn't managed to get a hole of Charlotte Cunningham or Ryan Torrey, yet, though—of anything involving discontent, recent firing, or usual precursors to arson committed by employees.

Daniels was at his desk, at the Patmos ISSP office. He was a tall, sallow man with hollow cheeks and dead eyes, and a somewhat unpleasant disposition. He had the look of an ascetic, and his white hair was sparse on his head. He also had a few back door ties to the yakuza, so if this investigation leaned that way, he would shut it down if he could.

Setting the papers down on his table, he leaned back and glanced over his shoulder, at a thrashing woman being dragged in, screaming every last obscenity in English and Spanish she could think of. He couldn't understand half of it, but it was the usual—that they had no right to drag her in, that she was practicing an honest trade.

It would be a very long week.

* * *

Two hours after _Guns of Navarone_ ended and I sunk to an all time low in my Valentine's hating rut, Charlotte appeared at my apartment with her boyfriend, an Indian guy named Arjun, about whom I had heard much and seen little. By all accounts he was a pleasant guy, and I was happy to see my friend, who stepped right into my apartment as she was greeting me, and then started ranting about "The fucking son of a _bitch_ who burned down Chatsky's!"

Arjun just smiled at me and I laughed; this was typical pissed off Charlotte. She was harmless, but loud. None of our friends would have her any other way.

"Do y'all want something to drink? I'd 'a thought you'd have had something to do," I said, gravitating automatically towards my fridge.

"I _was_ scheduled to work today, but since work isn't _there_ anymore—we thought we'd come and visit you so you wouldn't get lonely." Charlotte plopped herself down on my sofa and stared at the television. It was now a black and white movie, and she was staring at it critically. She tended to mock my fascination with history, as I mocked her fascination with physics. "Drink? Sure."

"What're you watching?" Arjun asked, coming to stand next to the couch, as I bent over, and got out three beers.

"You want one?" I asked, holding up a bottle of Negra Modelo. "Uh...I think it's Schindler's List, but I'm not really sure. I wasn't really watching it."

I tended to prefer older movies, but there was one that had come out within the last twenty years that I enjoyed: It focused on the SS; it was called _Totenkopf_. The only problem was that it was made to be dead accurate—I didn't want to watch it on a day that I wanted explosive gratification.

In other words: It could be very dry at times, since it focused on political schematics, and I wanted to see people get blown up—a correlation could be drawn between that and the fact that I abhorred Valentine's Day and wanted _it_ blown up.

Once everyone had a beer and was situated—I perched on a bar chair and Arjun and Charlotte took the couch—we set to watching the television. Charlotte grabbed the remote and changed the channel to a movie involving unrequited love and the back streets of Paris. It was a recent movie with a fairly well known actor, one I enjoyed.

"So have you even gotten a shower yet, Marie?" Charlotte cut in, after chatting animatedly with Arjun in Hindi. I'd always wondered where she learned the language, since her family was from Nigeria. She wasn't Indian—she was black, as far as I knew and by all appearances, but she spoke it like a native anyway.

"Does it _look_ like it?" I asked dryly, with a smile on my face, sticking out a foot and wiggling my fuzzy-purple-sock covered toes.

"We're going out," she declared.

I finished my Modelo and set it on the counter. "Where to? Everything'll be packed. _Shit_—I can't get blitzed—I have to talk with that damned detective tomorrow." I scowled bitterly.

"_Detective_?" Arjun asked, staring at me with concern.

I nodded. "Yeah, about the whole Chatsky's burning business. He says he wants to ask me a few questions about it. Have you gotten a call from him yet?" I was referring to Charlotte primarily, though it was possible they would also contact the people close to the employees as well, which would put Arjun on the detective's call list.

"No," Charlotte said, and then dug in her purse to find her phone. "Oh, it's off." With a sheepish laugh, she turned it on, and when she did, a bell-like ring signified that she had missed calls. "Ooh—three, all from the same place. Is his name Norman Daniels?"

"Yup, that's him."

"I better call him back," Charlotte said, and put the phone to her ear.

"So what kind of questions does he want to ask?" Arjun asked, leaning forward, propping his elbows on his knees.

"I dunno, when he first called me he got some basic information, like my name and what I'm studying in graduate school, and my normal schedule. He didn't ask me what I had done yesterday, I guess he'll ask me that tomorrow."

Charlotte talked to the detective for a few minutes, and began to answer her own versions of the questions Daniels had asked me. It only took just those few minutes, and when she hung up, she sighed.

"Why would anyone burn down Chatsky's?" she asked, but none of us had an answer.

They ended up staying at my apartment until seven o'clock, when I kicked them out, telling them that they needed to go do something special together for Valentine's and not worrying about making sure I wasn't forgotten.

"I'll order out Chinese. Y'all need to go somewhere nice—what about that Greek cafe down there on Wednesday?" I said, waving my hand dismissively, as they walked towards the apartment stairs, heading to their car. "I'm boring company, anyway. It's Valentine's Day!"

So, I ordered out for Chinese food, and settled myself down to watch more movies. I should probably have studied my German, or perhaps read a bit of the assigned book on Byzantium, but I didn't feel like studying.

* * *

In another part of the city, below a skytrain's monorail, was a wide Old European-style square inside of a rectangle of buildings, "decorated" with stands of bright souvenir-selling kiosks, and tourists mulling about with cameras hung on their necks and loud Hawaiian shirts—not that many people even knew where the term "Hawaiian" even came from anymore. In the middle of the stone-floored square was an copper commemoration statue, which was ever so slightly oxidized.

Overhead, the Martian sky was clear and cloudless, and it was a temperate 80F. This part of the city was the Patmos' Polish sector.

Which would make one wonder, in such a pretty place, why a ghostly, ethereal man was walking in their midst.

People who were even somewhat cognoscente would turn to stare in what they hoped was a discreet manner, but didn't escape the man's notice despite their best efforts. Something about his bearing set them off, and one mother made a half-frantic grab for the hand of her child.

He walked with his back ramrod straight, though his head was bowed and his face shadowed; the only visible part of his natural body was his head, crowned by nape length, gray-white hair. His hands were tucked neatly into his pockets, and he wore a black suit and tie, with a dark gray point collar shirt underneath. His gait was quick.

In fact, the only thing that seemed to tie him to reality was the rustling plastic grocery bag hanging at his wrist, at which people stared in wonder as he passed, quickly heading towards a small alley between two buildings and disappearing from sight.

As Vicious navigated the back streets of Patmos' Little Warsaw, he slowly relaxed. Though he knew he walked a fine line living as he did, in plain view of "normal people" it also gave him a measure of protection the underworld did not afford; that of the fact no one knew who he was and that anyone who did ran the risk of exposing themselves if they approached him.

Times were changing. Mao's predictions had come back to haunt him—of course, Vicious had never afforded the old man any particular hate, he was simply an obstacle to be removed. Vicious doubted Mao had ever really understood that—his dying statement had only served to drive that point home. At the time it had caused him to smile.

The Syndicates were moving further underground, as the political climate was changing.

As much as he was loathe to admit, the way of life he knew was evaporating at an alarming rate. The ISSP was under intense investigation, under charges of corruption and taking bribes. The syndicates were being brought to task—not under murder charges, but in a haunting nod to past times, under charges of tax evasion.

_And yet they still insist on trials? What a farce. Even these fools here knows they're guilty, but for those idealistic bleeding hearts...a pretense must be made. They're convinced there must be some "good" reason for one's actions._

His face twisted malevolently. It was almost certain that he was not known to be alive by the syndicates, or by anyone else, or else someone would have already come for his head. Or else they were far more intelligent than the idiots he had always contended with. It had been two years since his final confrontation with Spike, since it had all come to a head and crashed down upon his shoulders.

He had intended to die that morning, to end it all, with the rising sun. His goals in life were accomplished, his vendettas carried out.

But, like everything else that he could remember, it had not happened the way it should have, and he was still alive. He had more pride in himself than to die like a dog, and kill himself, which left him stranded in this life with no direction or clear purpose. This gnawed at him rabidly. He didn't know if Spike was alive or dead.

His apartment was small, and had no central heating or AC. Otherwise, it was comfortable. It overlooked the square, though he was not one for that kind of ambiance (this specific feature had been a matter of chance), and if one could ignore the skytrain it was more than livable.

One might wonder where Vicious got his money: He was not a poor man, by any standards, and the Swiss banks of old were still in business. Since the money was not tied to him by name, and beyond the reach of the yakuza (Not for lack of trying, however), and as the bank's financial policies still functioned according to the laws of its former country, it was still his.

He was aware, however, that the central government and its investigation was pressing upon the banks to release information on yakuza accounts—and he imagined that it was making his former colleagues squirm. It _was_ lawful for a certain kind of judge—when there actually was a Switzerland still in existence, it was a Swiss magistrate—to order the banks to lift its security, and that would prove disastrous.

There were other technicalities involved, and some depended on the ability to present definitive proof of illegal activities—a laughable requirement, to Vicious—but it was still unsettling. It was something to which he would have to turn his attention in the near future.

But as to immediate position; the best place to hide from enemies was in the place that you were least expected. For a man like Vicious, whose patience was nearly infinite, like, as the Van would say, a snake in the grass, he had made do with the situation at hand. If he were to be forced into this compromising position he would at least do it in a way that garnered something other than revulsion in him.

He was not, of course, interested in any _living_ thing around him, but the physical surroundings were more appealing than a broken down, dank back alley, as would be in Tharsis or Onsen, on the west side. Perhaps more fitting and familiar, but hardly better. As frigid as Vicious may have been, he was not without tastes.

There was little decoration; though what was there was comfortable. A fairly spacious living room with a coffee table and a couch, and a flat-screen television on the opposite wall (This had come with the room, left by the former inhabitants), a bedroom big enough for a double bed, and a shower/bathroom combination attached to the bedroom. A white-tiled kitchen seemed spotless—he rarely used it, so that was the reason. There were also two closets and a walk-in laundry room.

It seemed monotone; since Vicious had little experience with decoration, it was mostly beige, cream, and white. The apartment was mainly utilitarian.

Vicious set the grocery bag on the counter and took the contents out: Some odds and ends, and various foodstuffs. He had developed something of an eclectic appetite during his time in the higher ranks of the Red Dragons, and his purchases reflected it. He was facilitated by the range of grocery stores in the area.

While Spike had been perfectly content to eat whatever was handed to him, provided it wasn't toxic (and even then some concessions had been made), Vicious' standards were placed a little higher if he could help it.

What had been said on the street had been only somewhat surprising, as Vicious was not a man to be easily shocked: Apparently, Chatsky's—the coffee shop where he'd been last night and by some ugly brat had been told to vacate—had been burned to the ground.

It was something of a pity, it was the only even approaching passable coffee venue he had yet found within a twenty minute walk. After deciding that the conversation between the two clerks had some relevance as to himself he paid more attention to their chatter: They were thinking it was arson, and that the ISSP was starting an investigation.

He put the food away and walked into his bedroom. Boredom was not something he had ever been accustomed with, and it made him somewhat bitter and short-tempered. He had very little he enjoyed, and anyway much of it was now out of his reach.

There was another window in his bedroom overlooking the square; for a moment he paused and looked down at the milling crowds. During the day it was fairly loud, and during the night it was nearly quiet.

He sat down on the bed after sharply jerking the shudders closed. He had never trusted peace, he knew it to be a lull before the storm and an invitation into complacency.

Something egged him incessantly in the back of his head; but he couldn't put his finger on it, and that irritated him.

* * *

Second chapter is done...what do y'all think about Vicious' personification?

RR!


	3. Chapter 3

I went to bed, drunk, at 1am.

Earlier, at 11pm, my sister-in-law, Jenna, had called, and I had immediately realized that my already depressing Valentine's was going downhill: I hadn't been fond of my brother since he developed a habit of lying to me midway through his high school career, and, while my younger brother's wife tried her best to be kind to me, I couldn't help but be sharp and standoffish with her.

Guilty by association was my rationale, however cruel it was. I never said I was a saint, and my sudden sour mood was enhanced by the alcohol already running in my veins.

"What in the _Hell_ are you doing calling so late?" I groused, glancing at the clock on the wall. It was a mystery to the girl who lived two floors directly above me: she had never learned how to read a dial clock.

"Oh—well, I just thought I'd see how your day went," Jenna said kindly, and I snorted derisively. "Is that bad?"

"Chatsky's burned down this morning so I'm out of a job, and I spent the whole day watching Nazis march across a screen holed up in my apartment with a twelve pack and a cheese ball because my neighbors won't leave me the fuck alone."

"Oh..." she said, trying hard to come up with something positive to say. "Why won't your neighbors leave you alone?"

"Because I lied to shut my neighbor up and now they're all interested," I muttered.

_Well isn't this ironic_, I thought bitterly, _I excommunicated my brother for lying and here I am admitting that I lied. Wonderful hypocrite, I am._

I sensed Jenna, as she tended to do, was waiting for me to ask how her own day had gone. I slipped to the ground next to my refrigerator, bottle opener in hand.

"How was your day?" I asked, genially enough, and the woman had launched into a detailed report spanning the breakfast in bed to the romantic candlelight dinner by the river.

"He even left cute little clues to lead me to the reservation confirmation!" Jenna gushed, causing me to scowl. "We had the best seats in the house!"

By the end of it I was quite inebriated, and was looking for a way out of this conversation.

"It's midnight," I slurred irritably. "Don't you have somewhere to fuck off to? Isn't Ben home?"

Jenna, as usual, ignored my unpleasantness and eked out one last infuriating bit of happiness: "I'm pregnant!"

My immediate reaction was to disavow myself of any babysitting services whatsoever, and to flatly inform her that I hated children.

When she hung up, still bubbly, I sat there for a minute, glaring at my shadowed, rickety cabinets and feeling overwhelmed by the world.

I had never been a very cheerful person, even at the best of times. And seeing my college dropout younger brother succeed when he was so close to failure—I admit it, I was jealous and wanted him to feel the bitter taste of defeat—made me downright spiteful. It wasn't something I enjoyed or even really meant to happen, but being reminded that Ben had seemingly managed to flunk out of college, marry his ridiculously nice, perfect girlfriend of one year, and land a cushy, well-paying job without even _trying—_that was what ate at me.

I had never landed anything by chance or luck in my life. Life happened to my brother and it all managed to be in his favor.

For a while I'd been hoping that there would be a messy divorce: If that were ever to happen, it didn't seem imminent.

With a scowl, I set the phone on the ground, and got to my feet, heading unsteadily for the bathroom. I felt stupid: Was I _this_ petulant and bitter? How pathetic!

"I need a hobby," I muttered, my words slurred so completely that only I knew what I meant to say, "One that _doesn't_ involve genocide."

My schoolwork was taxing, I even taught a few undergrad German courses. I had no job now, I had obligations to classes and professors, and students, and God knows what else that I'd managed to forget at the moment, and my younger brother had a perfect life.

I knew I was being overly melodramatic even then. I had nothing particularly miserable to lament: I should have been happy for my brother to have landed on his feet.

My head spun dizzyingly, and I couldn't keep two thoughts straight.

Staggering towards the tile-lined shower stall, I stripped off my clothes and stepped under the jet: The steamy heat helped to ease my mind, and I leaned my bare back against the wall and let the water pelt my chest and stomach.

I washed my hair and didn't bother shaving my legs; it was too cold to wear anything short. When I stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in my blue terry robe, I felt my head swim and the ground rush up to meet me. My stomach churned, and I crawled wildly towards the toilet, craning my head over the rim just as bitter, alcohol tinged vomit burst forth.

I threw up until nothing came but dry heaves and the muscles in my chest contracted cruelly, but to no end, and then let myself collapse weakly next to the porcelain station, curled up like a shrimp. I was trembling, though I wasn't cold.

When I had nothing left to expunge, I managed to get to my bed and bury myself under a mass of covers, still loosely wearing my robe. I went to sleep like that, with the digital clock on my dresser shining in blue digits: 1:03am.

* * *

I woke up the next morning to the keening shriek of my apartment phone, and I threw off the covers, swearing in both English and German, slurring them together into something altogether vile. My robe hung off of my shoulders, and I half stumbled into my kitchen. My contacts didn't want to cooperate and I only located the phone because it went spinning off into a corner when I inadvertently kicked it.

"Why the _fuck_ are you on the floor!" I hissed, snatching up the offending cube of plastic, and putting it to my ear. "_What_!" I barked into the phone, and jerked the terry cloth robe further across my stomach from where it had been displaced. My head pounded, I was disoriented, and I was angry at being awakened so rudely.

"Ms. Hammel? This is detective Norman Daniels." The voice was almost patronizing.

It took me a few seconds to sort through my mind, and slowly, my temper dissipated, leaving me rather sheepish and uncomfortable. I stood in my kitchen, blinking owlishly at my surroundings. The television was still on. I jerked, realizing Daniels was waiting for an answer.

"Oh!—I mean, of course, I...got a little drunk last night." I could feel myself redden, and I licked my lips, and grimaced.

_Did I throw up? What happened after Jenna hung up? I can't remember anything. Shit. What did I say to her?_

"Of course," came the dry reply. "I was just calling to remind you that we have a meeting at 2pm scheduled."

"Of—of course...I remember," I said slowly, and I glanced at the clock. 11:47. "I haven't forgotten."

The silence was drawn out just long enough to drive home Mr. Daniel's dry skepticism.

"Well, I'll see you then, Ms. Hammel," he said, and I nodded.

"Right—right, see you," I said quickly. "Bye." He hung up, and I leaned against the counter top for a few minutes, rubbing my temple and gritting my teeth. In addition to this Chatsky's fiasco, there was something important from last night that flitted on the edge of my consciousness like a dream that I couldn't recall.

Outside, Angie's twin girls were—

_That_ was it.

My sister-in-law was pregnant. I flinched, realizing rather blithely that I would soon be some hideous variant of Aunt Marie.

The phone went off again and I stared dazedly at the caller ID: _Home_. I still insisted on calling my parent's house home, for some reason, though I hadn't lived there since I began grad school, and lived full-time in my own apartment. I considered my apartment to be my home, but my parents' house was Home.

I sighed, and answered it: "Hello?"

"Marie?" It was my father. "Hey, did you get the chocolate?"

A smile crossed my face. "Yes, I got it. Thanks, Daddy." My dad and I were quite close, and were typically of a like mind. "Hey, dad? Did you see on the news yesterday? The Chatsky's where I work burned down. I'm shit out of luck, I'll have to find another job."

This seemed to surprise him: "No! I didn't see. You're going to have to find another job somewhere? Where?"

"Yeah. I don't know yet. I've got to talk to a detective this afternoon about it—the burning I mean...they think it's arson."

We talked for a few more minutes, and then my dad, in a rather flat tone, mentioned Jenna having called yesterday saying she was pregnant. I frowned slightly.

"What's mom think about it?"

"She's not too happy, either," said dad. "He's only twenty-one, she's only twenty. Ben said Jenna's parents are already planning a baby shower." My father's tone was enough to telegraph his opinion. Neither of my parents had been in favor of my brother's decision to quit college and marry Jenna, whereas Jenna's parents had been all too thrilled.

I heaved a long sigh. "Do they know if it's a boy or a girl?"

"A boy," dad said, "They're naming him Casper."

"...Great," I said, rather sarcastically, with my eyebrows raised. "He sounds like a food."

"Those are _capers_," my dad reminded me, and I laughed. I felt worn out, and I realized that my legs were shaking from weariness as I stood on them. I never could sleep soundly on nights I got drunk.

"Still. Who names their kid _Casper_?"

My dad didn't answer that directly and settled for something roundabout and vaguely chastising. I didn't mind it; it only meant he agreed with me but wouldn't say so out loud.

We talked for a few more minutes and then my dad had to go, so I went and got dressed to meet detective Daniels. As was my habit, I checked my e-mail before I left: Too many to count, mostly from students asking questions, others from the various newsletters I subscribed to, and very few of any real interest.

I answered a few of the simpler ones, left the rest for later, and talked to Charlotte and Nora for a few minutes, and then got my keys and purse to leave.

I was in a considerably better mood by then; Nora had mentioned that there were openings at the store where she worked and she would put in a good word for both Charlotte and I. The sky overhead was a clear blue, and the weather was pleasant and cool.

* * *

Vicious in the next chapter! Review! Tell me how you think I'm handling this! I'm really happy to hear that people are enjoying this so far.

...You don't think that Marie's diatribe was too much? I want to give her a degree of personality and a background...I can't stand people just putting original characters in there without anything except their physical description...because background is just as important as anything else. Consider this a Character Development Chapter—a CDC.


End file.
